


Danger in the Air

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epilogue? What epilogue?, M/M, one scene of voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: The hatchlings at the Romanian Dragon Reservation are either dying or disappearing entirely. The Ministry brings in an outsider to help unravel the mystery, and Charlie finds himself falling hard for the new arrival.





	Danger in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Charlieficathon.

The hatchling was dead.

Charlie knew that much even from this height, as he nudged his broomstick toward the ground for a closer look. The creature’s stillness despite the shattered wings and contorted neck told him that much. It hadn’t been dead long either, he thought, landing near the body and dismounting. Less than a day, possibly only hours. Not long enough for scavengers to approach, nor long enough to raise a stink.

Kneeling beside the hatchling, Charlie examined the corpse, eyes narrowing. The broken wings were definitely the result of impact, as if from a traumatic crash from a great height, rather than from fending off others of its kind. He saw no claw marks, no bite marks, only broken bones forming lumps beneath the skin and a froth of blood around the mouth. The poor thing hadn’t had the merciful grace to die instantly, Charlie thought sadly. It had lingered for minutes, possibly hours while it bled to death from within.

It was just like the two others found recently, in addition to the five hatchlings that had gone missing and were now presumed dead. What Charlie and the rest of the staff at the dragon reservation couldn’t figure out was how the hatchlings were dying, much less why. Worse yet, the unexplained deaths and disappearances had attracted the attention of the Romanian Ministry, and they wanted answers. Already there were whispers of closing the reservation and moving the remaining dragons to safer environs. Charlie didn’t want that to happen, but couldn’t see any way to prevent it.

Reaching into his pack, Charlie pulled out his two-way mirror and murmured the spell needed to open communications. “Weasley to base camp, Weasley to base camp, over.”

The mirror went blank, resolving seconds later into a face not Charlie’s own. “What have you got, Weasley?”

“Another body, Ion,” Charlie replied, and the man on the other end of the mirror winced. “It looks like one of the hatchlings from Nadia’s last clutch. It’s the same as the other two we found; it looks like it fell right out of the sky.”

Ion sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Bring the body back,” he instructed, “and we’ll have Gustav take a look. Maybe he’ll find something he missed the last two times.” He didn’t sound hopeful.

Charlie felt about as hopeful as Ion sounded. “I thought Gustav went to Bucharest this morning? Ah well, so long as he’s here. I’ll be back at the camp in an hour.”

“Oh, you were already out on patrol when he returned. There’s also word from the Ministry,” Ion said before Charlie could sever contact. “There’s to be a meeting after supper this evening. Some Ministry flunky’s going to tell us they’ve decided to bring in outside help, since we’re apparently incapable of solving this crisis on our own.”

“Ugh. Did they say where from outside?”

“I guess we’ll find out after dinner, won’t we?” Ion took one last drag from his hand-rolled cigarette and stubbed it out away from Charlie’s view. The stream of smoke from his nostrils clouded the mirror temporarily. When Charlie had been a rookie at the reservation, he’d been fooled into confusing the cloud of smoke for the end of mirror communication. It hadn’t been a mistake he’d repeated. “All right, I’ll see you in an hour.”

The mirror went blank again, this time for good; and in moments the only face Charlie saw was his own reflection staring back at him from the silvered surface. Tucking away the mirror, Charlie reached into his pack again, and began rigging a sling so he could bring the dead hatchling home.

Gustav Magnusson, who oversaw all of the dragon illnesses and deaths at the compound, was there to meet Charlie when he arrived. He was a short, pink-cheeked Swede, white-blond hair already thinning. He tsked sympathetically as Charlie dismounted his broom, helping him to remove the sling in favour of a _Mobilicorpus_ spell for the hatchling’s stiffening body.

“A Hungarian Horntail? I didn’t think anything could kill those,” he said, bending to examine the little dragon’s corpse. “Ion told you about the meeting?”

“He told me. Where do you want the hatchling?”

“I’ll take it from here, put the poor beast into cold storage, and perform the necropsy later tonight.” Gustav made a disgusted noise in his throat. “I doubt this outsider the Ministry wants to send us will be able to find anything different. Rumour says their _expert_ is barely older than one of these hatchlings. Some English herbologist, I heard.” Looking up from the body, he grinned. “Might not be so bad for you though, _ja_? Someone from home to talk to?”

“I go home whenever I need someone English to talk to,” Charlie answered, returning the grin. “I went back last fall for my brother Ron’s wedding. I’ll go back again whenever Percy, George, or Ginny decide to tie the knot.” He paused. “Or when Bill and Fleur have another baby.” He paused again. “Or when Ron and Hermione have their first, I suppose, if no one gets married before then. We’d thought Ginny would be next, but she told me she’d broken things off in her last letter.”

Gustav laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “It sounds as though you will have plenty of opportunity to go home, one way or the other! I had best get this little brute on ice before anything useful breaks down. The last thing I need is someone from either the Romanian or British Ministries saying I failed to follow proper procedure.”

“Agreed. I’ll see you at the meeting tonight, yeah?” Charlie flashed another smile and left, making his way toward his quarters and a hot shower.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two days later Charlie stood with Ion Ionescu, Gustav Magnusson, and the other lead wranglers in the lobby of the reservation’s administrative building, awaiting the arrival of the English herbologist via Portkey. They were intended to be the person’s welcome delegation, but Charlie thought none of them looked particularly welcoming. He certainly didn’t feel that way.

A couple of minutes later, at promptly ten o’clock, a soft popping sound was immediately followed by the appearance of a large trunk, an equally large valise, and a rather green-faced young man whose knees collapsed immediately upon landing. He scrambled back onto his feet, his blush combining with the greenish tinge on his face to create an interesting, new, if not exactly becoming colour. Charlie’s lips twitched as the young man straightened. The others weren’t as successful in hiding their amusement, judging from the quiet chortles around him while the arrival tried to gather his bearings.

“Welcome to the Popa Dragon Reservation,” Ion said at last, stepping forward. “I am Ion Ionescu, the director of the facility. Is this your first time journeying by Portkey?”

“It was always in-country before now,” the young man replied. Extending his hand, he added, “Neville Longbottom, researcher for the British Institute of Magical Herbology, at your service.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ion said dryly, giving Neville’s hand a perfunctory shake. “Allow me to introduce you to our heads of staff. This is Gustav Magnusson, our dragon Healer; Gheorghe Moraru, lead wrangler for our Romanian Longhorns; Ingrid Jonsson, lead wrangler for our Swedish Short-snouts and Norwegian Ridgebacks; Laszlo Nagy, lead wrangler for our Peruvian Vipertooths and Antipodean Opaleyes; Elaine Lau, lead wrangler for our Chinese Fireballs; Owen Quinn, lead wrangler for our Welsh Greens and Hebridean Blacks; and Charlie Weasley, lead wrangler for our Hungarian Horntails and Ukrainian Ironbellies.” He paused, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth upon seeing the newcomer’s slightly dazed expression at the barrage of names. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask me or any of them. Now, who would like to show our guest his quarters before lunchtime?”

“I will,” Charlie said. He’d recognised the new arrival’s name, if not the face. Ron and Ginny had both mentioned Neville in their letters, and Ginny claimed him as a close friend. She’d never let him hear the end of it if she decided her former schoolmate had been neglected during his stay while in Charlie’s care. “C’mon, Longbottom, follow me.”

He waited long enough for Neville to levitate his baggage before striding away. Neville kept pace, his belongings drifting behind them as they walked.

“You’re Ron and Ginny’s brother, right?” he asked. “Ginny talked about you a lot when we were at Hogwarts together, especially during my seventh year.”

“Yeah, I’m the famous wayward Weasley,” Charlie replied, glancing at Neville from the corner of his eye. This close, he could see the scars marking his cheeks, now faded to pale white lines. “I figured you would have had enough of reptiles for a lifetime after the Battle of Hogwarts. Yes, I heard about that.”

“You and everyone else,” Neville murmured. “I’d prefer not to talk about those days, if you don’t mind. There are past copies of several newspapers and magazines I can refer you to if you want details.”

“Sorry. I was just wondering how the Snakeslayer of Hogwarts ended up sent to a dragon reservation. You probably hate that nickname, too.”

“With a passion,” Neville agreed with a wry smile. “I’d rather be remembered for my work with plants, rather than being in the right place and right time for one lucky swing. I’m still surprised I didn’t take off my own head, rather than the snake’s.”

Charlie opened the door, ushering Neville and his things out into the spring sunshine before following. “This is the administrative building, where all the paperwork gets done. It’s also our main Portkey point and where we go if we need to Apparate off the premises. The dragons are sensitive to human magic, so we try to do as little of it as possible, especially close to the paddocks, which is why the administrative building is furthest. On site we’ve got quarters for non-locals who live and work here year-round, a commissary, a laundry, a canteen, a pub...it’s like a small village, although you still need to go to Wizarding Bucharest for new clothes or more specialised supplies not carried at the commissary. Over here we have the infirmary, and further on is the animal hospital, which is where I suspect you’ll be doing most of your work. Gustav’s a good bloke; he’ll give you access to anything you need while you’re here. Past the animal hospital are the dragon paddocks, and then open spaces where the dragons can hunt. They prefer their food fresh on the hoof, rather than fed to them, although they’ll eat carrion on occasion. Ah, here we are. Guest quarters.”

“Are all the buildings here made of stone?” Neville asked, following Charlie inside.

“Stone or sod,” he replied. “You don’t want wooden buildings near a lot of fire-breathing dragons, do you? That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“No, I suppose not.” Neville wrestled the trunk through the door and looked around his new living arrangements, letting out a low whistle. “Wow, nice.”

“Lounge to your left, kitchen to your right, bedroom and bath are down the hall. You’ll be able to pick up some basic foodstuffs from the commissary, or you can choose to eat in the canteen if you’d rather not cook...or if you’re like me, you _can’t_ cook.”

“I think I’ll manage. Thanks for the tour, Mr Weasley.”

“It’s Charlie. Any friend of Ginny and Ron’s is a friend of mine.” Charlie smiled, receiving a shy smile in return.

“At least I’ll have one friendly face to look forward to,” Neville said, lugging his trunk down the hall to the bedroom, valise still perched precariously on top. Reappearing, he settled on the sofa, bouncing a little to test the cushions. “I got the distinct feeling my presence wasn’t welcome.”

Charlie sat down beside Neville, leaning back and crossing his legs. “It’s not you, Neville. Ion’s upset because the Romanian Ministry went over his head and asked for help before Ion could ask first. He feels as though his toes have been trod on, and he’s still wincing. He’ll be all right in a day or so. They all will.”

Neville groaned and got back onto his feet. “I guess I’d best make a trip to the commissary, then,” he said. “I’ll try the canteen food in, as you say, a day or so. Once the ill will’s had a chance to die down.”

“I’ll come with you.” Charlie couldn’t help but sympathise for the kid. None of this was his fault, after all. “All of the tinned goods are labelled in Romanian, and you can’t always tell what it is from the pictures.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“What did you tell the boy when he arrived?” Ion slid into the chair across the table from Charlie, beer in hand. “It’s been a week, and I think the only people who have seen him have been you and Gustav. He says the boy works from sunrise to sunset, eats at his desk, and never speaks unless it’s to ask a question or request records or tissue samples.”

Charlie tipped his beer to his lips, drinking a swallow before meeting the director’s eyes. “The _boy’s_ name is Neville, and from all I’ve heard about him, his middle name might as well be Tenacity. Don’t let that round baby face and those big brown eyes fool you. He doesn’t quit.”

“Had the two of you met before?” Ion asked, leaning forward. 

“He’s friends with Ron and Ginny, so I’d heard of him. We’re both veterans from the Battle of Hogwarts, but we didn’t fight together. I didn’t know he was there in the thick of it until afterward. My family had enough to deal with.” Charlie paused, remembering Fred and the sharp grief following his death. “Ginny speaks very highly of him, and I’m beginning to understand why.”

“I think someone sounds a bit smitten.” Ion smiled and drank another swig of beer. “Thinking of robbing the cradle?”

“I don’t even know if he swings that way!” Charlie exclaimed. “And no, there will be no cradle-robbing. He’s Ron’s age, so he’s not quite eight years younger than I am. It’s not robbing the cradle if there’s less than ten years separating you in age.”

“So you _are_ smitten.” Ion’s smile widened. “It explains why I haven’t seen you in the canteen for meals lately. You’ve finagled him into cooking for you, right? You’ll be showing off your tattoos next.”

“He offered!” Charlie nudged his friend’s shoulder, none too gently but not hard enough to spill the other man’s beer. “I’m not going to turn down a good home-cooked meal if it’s available!” It helped that Neville was actually a competent cook, but Charlie wasn’t about to give Ion more fuel for his teasing.

Ion smirked. “I won’t tell Olga you don’t miss her cooking. She’s asked about you.”

“Oh, shut up.” Charlie glared, but it was a half-hearted effort at best. “And you can forget about me buying the next round.”

“You were going to buy the next round? I take back my Olga comment. Seriously, though. Bring your friend by the cafeteria or the pub sometime, if only to prove he does more than work and sleep. I promise you, we won’t bite.”

Charlie made a noncommittal sound in his throat and finished his beer. “We’ll see.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Charlie knocked at the door before poking his head inside. “Neville, you home?” he called out.

Nobody answered, although the sound of running water explained the reason why. Neville had apparently decided to shower before supper. Charlie grabbed a beer from the icebox and settled onto the sofa to wait, resisting the urge to skim through the stack of notes resting atop the coffee table. It was probably filled with herbological jargon way over Charlie’s head. There was a recent copy of _Quidditch Weekly_ on the coffee table too, so Charlie paged through that instead while he waited.

A low, pleasure-filled moan from the bathroom made Charlie lift his head, eyes wide. Neville hadn’t seemed the type to toss off where anyone could hear...but he hadn’t answered when Charlie arrived, either. He didn’t know he had an audience, and Charlie could only imagine how mortified Neville would be if he knew.

On the other hand, Ion’s remark a couple of days earlier about Charlie being smitten hadn’t been off the mark. He _was_ attracted, never mind that Neville was the same age as Charlie’s youngest brother and so quiet and reserved he often escaped notice from others. Charlie had noticed, however, and he liked what he’d seen so far.

And now he had a golden opportunity to see much, much more, enough to fuel his own wanking fantasies for months. That is, unless Neville did something like groan Ginny’s name as he came, because then Charlie might have to kill him; and he liked Neville too much for that.

Slowly, carefully, Charlie got to his feet and tiptoed down the hall until he stood just outside the door to the loo. The door stood slightly ajar, and it took only a moment for Charlie to ease it open further, just enough to let him peek around and allow an unobstructed view of the shower and its occupant. The glass door was somewhat fogged from the steam-laden air, but Charlie nonetheless got a breathtaking view.

Save for arms tanned from working in the sun, Neville was deliciously pale. Broad shoulders matched an equally broad chest, lightly sprinkled with wiry dark hair around small, rosy nipples. Charlie swallowed hard, imagining brushing his fingers over those tight nubs and wondering what Neville might sound like if he did. More hair marched in a dark line from his navel and over the slight potbelly marring an otherwise narrow waist, disappearing and blending into his pubes, the view somewhat obscured by Neville’s hand wrapped around his rigid cock.

Neville’s head was tipped back beneath the hot spray splashing over his chest, his mouth open in a round O of pleasure as he stroked his length, one soapy hand sliding up his abdomen and chest to pull and tweak at his nipples. Charlie bit his lip when Neville moaned again and pinched harder.

So he liked it a bit rough, did he? Charlie drew a slow, deep breath, his own prick stirring to life as the show continued, hardening further when Neville twisted to reach behind him, revealing taut, firm, rounded buttocks, and pressed two fingers inside with a small gasp. The hand wrapped around his cock moved faster, Neville’s tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip in much the same way Charlie imagined licking at the water droplets stippling Neville’s chest.

Neville moaned again and came, hips jerking, a name sighing past his lips. “ _Charlie..._

It was the last name Charlie had expected to hear, startling him so badly he almost gave away his presence outside the door. Sucking in another breath, he backed away from the door as silently as he’d arrived, hard and aching and wondering how the hell he was going to act once Neville emerged from the shower. Much as the younger man seemed to enjoy the rougher side of nipple play, he doubted Neville would appreciate being attacked and ravished without at least some warning.

At least now Charlie knew he wasn’t the only one smitten. That was something, wasn’t it?

He was back on the sofa by the time Neville finished his shower and shut off the water, staring blankly at the Quidditch magazine in front of him and listening while Neville moved around the loo, towelling away excess water and drying his hair. Charlie could imagine the sight of damp, pink skin contrasting with the white terry towel all too well, which did nothing for the erection pressing uncomfortably inside his denims.

He heard the bathroom door open all the way. “Oh!” Neville exclaimed. “Charlie! I...um...I didn’t realise...have you been waiting long?” 

“Just got here,” Charlie lied, looking over his shoulder and biting back a whimper. The reality of Neville wearing nothing but a towel around his hips was even better than he’d imagined. “Look, can I use the loo? I think I’m going to explode if I wait much longer.”

“Oh! Sure. I’ll – I’ll go get dressed. It won’t be more than a couple of minutes.” Blushing, Neville nearly fled to his room, door shutting firmly behind him. Charlie fled to the loo almost as quickly, indulging in a fast, frantic wank once there. He came hard after only a few strokes, one hand clapped over his mouth to stifle any sound he might make. Afterward, he used a hasty self-cleaning spell and splashed some water onto his face, peering into the mirror and hoping he didn’t look too flushed.

Neville was dressed in jeans and a dark blue pullover when Charlie left the loo, looking anywhere but at Charlie. He swallowed a sigh and sat down on the sofa.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I came at a bad time. I just came over to ask if you wanted to go to the pub for a pint. Your hard work and dedication have been duly noted by the rest of the staff, and nobody wants you to burn out before you find anything.” Charlie smiled and tried to look encouraging. “What do you say? Think you’ve got it in you to socialise for one night? It was never my intention to isolate you from everyone else when you first got here, you know.”

“I know,” Neville replied. “It’s just that I’ve tried just about everything I can think of and nothing’s panning out and I can’t help but wonder what it is I’m overlooking, and...”

Charlie held up a hand, stilling the flow of words. “You can tell me at the pub, Neville. Come on, all work and no play makes any wizard unhappy.”

“I think I can spare time enough for a pint or two,” Neville said after a moment.

“Fantastic.” Charlie smiled, but inwardly he was crowing in triumph. Neville didn’t seem upset or aware of Charlie’s act of voyeurism. He hadn’t ruined anything before it had a chance to begin. There was still hope. “Let’s go.”

It was a ten-minute walk to the pub from Neville’s guest quarters. Neville claimed an empty table while Charlie went for their pints, and it wasn’t long before they’d settled down for an evening of drinking.

“So, what seems to be the problem?” Charlie asked, drinking from his glass and wiping the foam from his upper lip. “You said earlier nothing seemed to be working the way you’d wanted.”

“It’s the strangest thing,” Neville replied. “It’s obvious that the baby dragons were poisoned, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what poison is responsible. I think I’ve gone through _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ and _Moste Potente Poisons_ page by page. I’ve tested and retested every tissue sample Mr Magnusson could spare, and all I’ve been able to do is narrow down options.”

“Narrowed options are good,” Charlie said. “It’s more than we had before. Gustav hadn’t been able to find anything from the necropsies he performed. What do you know from your options?”

“It’s not a neurotoxin. It doesn’t degrade into cyanide or related compounds. It doesn’t affect the heart. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the dragons were ingesting a hallucinogen, but if that’s the case the dragons would have to be eating huge amounts, and I don’t think a hallucinogen would cause dragons to fall from the sky in mid-flight. It might make their flight a bit loopier, but it wouldn’t make them forget how to fly while they were flying.” Neville sipped from his pint, staring moodily at the scarred tabletop. “I’m not giving up, though. I’ll figure it out.”

“Is it possible the poison isn’t plant-based?” Charlie asked. “Maybe it’s venom from a poisonous animal, and that’s why you’re having such difficulty tracing the source? After all, your specialty is Herbology, not care of magical creatures.”

“I’d considered it,” Neville replied. “There aren’t that many natural magical poisons though, and none of them are native to this region.” He glanced up from the table, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into a cynical half-smile. “Unless a manticore’s moved in recently without anyone’s knowledge?”

“No, no manticores. No acromantulas. No runespoors.” Charlie shook his head, frowning. “Do you think it’s man-made? Someone at the reservation is poisoning the dragons?”

“I’m trying to rule out all the natural causes before I begin considering human intervention,” Neville said. “It’s a definite possibility. It could be that it’s a non-magical plant that’s poisoning the hatchlings, too. I just need to figure out which one. Or it could be a potion of some sort combining the two, and that’s why I’m having so much trouble, especially if the potion is a new, unregistered brew.” He sighed. “That brings us back to human intervention, though.”

“What’s this about human intervention?” Ion Ionescu joined their table, a nearly full bottle of ice vodka in one hand. He’d also brought three glasses, and he poured a finger-length into each glass. “You think one of my people might be involved in the hatchling deaths and disappearances?”

“I don’t know, sir. There are a few things I want to do first before I start making accusations,” Neville said cautiously. “I’ll need your permission for one of those things, though.”

“Name it, and it’s yours,” Ion said, knocking back his drink. His lips turned blue as he exhaled a gusty cloud of ice vapour. Normal colour returned within seconds as he poured a second drink. “And it’s Ion, not sir. I’m not one of your professors from school.”

“All right. Ion.” Neville reached for his glass of ice vodka, apparently emboldened upon seeing the director suffering no ill effects from its consumption. “I need to have a look at the dragon hunting grounds. I was just telling Charlie here that it was possible a common plant might be responsible, rather than a magical one; and I wanted to see what sort of flora grew there. It might be something that doesn’t harm sheep or cattle but is affecting the hatchlings because their digestive systems aren’t as able to handle it as well as the adults. I thought I’d go at a time when the dragons are least likely to be hunting, or when the hatchlings are on their solo flights.”

“The hunting grounds are dangerous at any time,” Ion said thoughtfully, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I wouldn’t let you go alone.”

“I’ll take him,” Charlie offered. “I have patrol tomorrow. I’ll bring him with me, and keep an eye on the sky while he’s looking at the ground. It should be safe enough for him if we go in the afternoon. Most of the adults are either sleeping off their meals, sunning, or bathing in the lake then.” He looked over to Neville in time to see him exhale a frosty cloud of his own, grinning happily. “How well can you sit a broom?”

“Well, I don’t fall off any more, if that’s what you’re asking,” Neville answered, grimacing. “I can get from place to place on one, but that’s about as good as it gets.”

“It’s good enough.” Charlie swallowed his ice vodka, letting the vapour trickle between his teeth like dragon smoke while he savoured the sharp taste with its faint hint of peppermint. “We won’t be broom racing, after all.”

“I guess I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow.” Neville smiled, nodding enthusiastically when Ion offered to pour a second glass of ice vodka.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“It’s a Nimbus 2000,” Charlie said, handing the broom to Neville. “It might have been the fastest broom on the market back when you were an ickle firstie, but today it’s about the same as a Cleansweep was back then. You should do all right.”

Neville accepted the broom gingerly. “You should probably know the first time I rode a broom, it was a Cleansweep. I ended up breaking my wrist. There’s a reason why I never play pick-up Quidditch with friends.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to break a bone from flying, and you won’t be the last,” Charlie said, slinging a leg over his own Nimbus. “We’ll go slow until you find your wings.”

Adjusting his pack, Neville got on the broom and kicked off, wobbling slightly until he found his balance. Charlie decided to make the pace extra slow – just in case – and followed Neville into the air, albeit much more smoothly. Lifting over the reservation, Charlie looked over his shoulder to make sure Neville was still behind him and airborne and marginally increased the speed. Neville followed suit, and Charlie sped up a little more, and then a little more, until he saw Neville’s mouth tighten into a thin line and his knuckles whiten around his broomstick.

“Too fast?” he called out. 

Neville shook his head once, carefully, and deliberately loosened his grip, finger by finger.

Consequently, a trip that usually took Charlie less than five minutes lasted almost twenty, but he couldn’t complain, not after seeing how terrified Neville was while in the air yet never asking Charlie to slow down or to ask if they couldn’t maybe walk the rest of the way, even though both things must have crossed his mind at least once. For the first time, Charlie could imagine his unprepossessing companion defiantly facing Voldemort despite overwhelming odds.

It made Charlie want him even more.

They dismounted near a stand of beech trees. Neville stretched, sighing as his feet touched solid ground one more. “I’m never going to like flying,” he said, his expression almost apologetic.

“It’s not for everyone,” Charlie agreed. “Some people are meant to keep the rest of us grounded and sensible so we don’t fly too high. Speaking of flying, I’d probably start looking to the skies while you look for suspicious plant life. The dragons start getting frisky again around sunset.”

“Oh. Right.” Neville cast a quick look up to the sky, as though he expected dragons to begin descending that very moment, before dropping his gaze back to the ground and beginning a slow circle around the beech stand. Charlie could hear him muttering under his breath, rattling off plant names in Latin.

Charlie left him to his work, keeping an eye on nearby clusters of grazing sheep, occasionally scanning the skies for hungry dragons looking for their evening meal. Other than a hatchling or three, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“Finding anything interesting?” Charlie asked, his voice pitched low. “Any plants here that don’t belong?”

“I found a half-eaten sheep,” Neville replied, the words muffled by the trees separating them. “I’m guessing it was a hatchling’s dinner. Don’t adult dragons swallow them whole?”

“The larger ones can, but they tend to stick to cattle. More filling.”

“It looks like a recent kill,” Neville said. “The blood’s fresh. They must have eaten this just before we arrived. The body’s still warm. Those baby dragons overhead won’t try to dive-bomb me for the rest of their dinner, will they?”

“Probably not. They might squawk at you, but they don’t start getting aggressive until they’re around a year old.” Charlie focused on the three hatchlings playing a game that looked very much like a draconic version of tag. One of the hatchlings was lagging behind the others.

“That’s odd,” Neville said. “Where did this come from?”

The hatchling overhead convulsed, the beat of its wings faltering; and Charlie realised it was happening again. He was witnessing a poisoning before his eyes.

“Neville!” he shouted. “Overhead!”

He heard Neville’s running footsteps, breaking into a sprint as the baby dragon went limp and began falling, tumbling end over end toward the ground. Pulling his wand from his arm holster, Charlie pointed it toward the dragon, shouting, “ _Aresto momentum_!”

The hatchling’s free-fall slowed. Charlie kept an eye on it, his wand trained on the small creature’s descent, easing it toward a safe landing. A shout and a flash of red light from another stand of trees distracted him, the spell making him duck instinctively. The hatchling’s fall speeded up, and Charlie shouted the spell again, forcing himself to concentrate on the dragon even as another burst of light exploded just beyond his peripheral vision.

Neville ran past, wand drawn, planting himself in front of Charlie, firing spells and hexes toward the trees while doing his best to block the return spells sent their way. “You worry about the dragon - _Relashio_! – and I’ll worry about whoever it is - _Protego_! – trying to get everyone killed,” he panted.

Multi-coloured sparks and flashes of light streaked and swirled around Charlie as Neville and their attacker continued sending spells back and forth, the air nearly crackling with magic. Charlie focused on the hatchling, wishing it hadn’t been quite so high when it began its fall, wondering if he could get it to ground safely before it was struck by an errant jinx. He remained vaguely aware of Neville’s gasped spell-casting and laboured breaths, knowing time grew short.

The hatchling was about fifteen feet from the ground when Neville let out a cry of pain as a spell slipped past his defences. Charlie caught a glimpse of blood streaming from Neville’s upper arm as he twisted away and lifted his wand once more to defend, but it was too late. The jet of red light struck Charlie’s chest full-on. His limbs spasmed as he crumpled to the ground; it was suddenly hard to breathe. Dimly, he heard the hatchling fall the remaining distance, landing with a muffled thump, and Neville’s shouts. Struggling to remain conscious, he tried to roll over, but his twitching muscles wouldn’t allow it. 

At least the lights weren’t flashing around him any longer.

“Charlie? Charlie, talk to me. Come on, dammit, don’t you dare fade out on me now!”

Merlin, Neville sounded sexy when he spoke so commandingly. Charlie slitted his eyes open, locating a pale, round blur that eventually resolved into Neville’s face. “You’re bleeding.”

“And you got hit with one hell of a _Stupefy_ ,” Neville retorted. “Besides, it won’t be my first scar. Can you move?”

Charlie tried, but his muscles in his arms and legs were still too busy twitching to obey, although he managed some uncontrolled flailing. “Mmm yes, I’ve seen your scars. I like ‘em, they’re sexy. You make sexy noises, too.”

Neville stilled above him, gaping, before remembering himself and their situation. “You...heard me? In the shower? Never mind, I’ll be angry with you later. Listen, I just sent a Patronus back to the reservation, asking for help since I don’t know what charm you use for your two-way mirrors. There’s no way I can bring you, the dragon, the dead sheep, and your dragon-killer back at the same time by myself.” His face had turned a brilliant shade of red, and he would no longer meet Charlie’s eyes.

There were a lot of questions Charlie wanted to ask, and he was sure there was quite the story in there somewhere, but his chest hurt and he ached all over. And his arms and legs still wouldn’t do what he wanted them to do. Right now all he really wanted to do was curl up and sleep for a week.

One question wouldn’t wait. “The hatchling?”

“Still alive. Unconscious.”

“Good, good.” Charlie let his eyes slip shut again. “You done good, Neville.”

“Charlie? Stay with me, Charlie!”

He let out a weak chuckle. “Not going anywhere. Not until you’ve had a chance to get angry with me so I can make it up to you.”

Neville was still blushing when help arrived.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I still can’t believe it,” Charlie said the following day, back in his own quarters and resting comfortably on his own sofa. Suzanna, the infirmary’s chief Healer, had him under strict orders to rest for the next day or so, and Neville had volunteered to ensure he did so. “ _Gustav_ was the one killing the hatchlings? How did he do it?”

“ _Amanita muscaria_ , also known as the fly agaric mushroom.” Neville, upper left arm swathed in bandages, shifted on the nearby chair, trying to find a comfortable spot. “It’s mildly poisonous when raw, but edible if it’s parboiled first in plenty of water. Dried, it’s been used in some cultures by their shamans in certain rituals for their hallucinogenic properties. The shaman would swallow pieces of dried mushrooms without chewing, and after a few minutes they’d twitch and convulse and then fall into a deep sleep, where they’d reportedly have extremely vivid dreams. Apparently Gustav would kill a sheep when the hatchlings were out and then liberally sprinkle the body with pieces of dried mushrooms. The hatchlings ingested those with the mutton, apparently unaware they were eating more than just fresh-killed meat. They’d eat and take to the air again, and still be airborne when the effects hit. They’d either become so disoriented they couldn’t fly, or they’d lose consciousness in mid-air. Either way they’d crash and die on impact, or shortly thereafter.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Charlie said again, shaking his head. “He was supposed to heal them, not kill them.”

“He was the one doing the necropsies, which made it easier to fudge the reports, I guess,” Neville said. “I don’t think Ion’s stopped swearing in Romanian ever since the Ministry took Gustav into custody. I suppose we’ll learn the reason why he did it soon enough; but between you and me I don’t think they’ll ever find the bodies of the missing hatchlings. At least our hatchling’s going to make it.”

“Probably not. I’m glad we got to save one of them. I wish we could’ve done for the others, too.” Charlie picked moodily at a loose thread on one of the sofa cushions. “I suppose you’ll be heading back to England soon, now that we know what happened. I reckon you’ve got loads of projects waiting for you.”

“I had someone cover for me,” Neville said absently. “I shouldn’t find too much of a backlog when I get back. Ion’s scheduled a Portkey for me, three days from now.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence fell over the lounge. Charlie occasionally took a sip from the tea Neville had made for him after returning home from the infirmary, while Neville seemed inordinately fascinated with the patterns woven into the rug, tracing them over and over with the toe of his shoe. Charlie watched him, eyes narrowed in thought. Either Neville had decided not to be angry with him for his voyeurism because he still considered Charlie a convalescent, or he’d chalked up Charlie’s babbled inadvertent confession to momentary delirium from the Stunner he’d taken.

That, or he was too shy or too unaccustomed to making the first move, or was unaware Charlie also preferred blokes to birds. He’d _told_ Neville he found his scars and the sounds he’d made in the shower were sexy, though; but again, maybe Neville had decided Charlie had been out of his head at the time and talking nonsense.

The time had come to set the record straight, before Neville returned to England with nothing resolved. Charlie set his teacup on the coffee table, determined to say something, anything, but Neville beat him to it.

“How much did you overhear?” Neville’s voice was low, his gaze still focused on the rug, toe still tracing the same patterns without ceasing. “That day when...you know.”

Charlie hesitated for a moment before opting for honesty. “Enough to hear my name at a certain crucial moment.” Neville’s gaze flew up to meet his, eyes wide, and Charlie smiled. “I had no idea your taste ran toward ginger. Hell, if I hadn’t been there, I’d have never known your taste ran toward other men. All things considered, I can’t say I regret listening in. Now, what chance do I have to get you to make some of those sexy noises again?”

Neville touched the tip of his tongue to his bottom lip, and Charlie nearly leaped off the sofa then and there. “Depends,” he answered softly. “Do I get to find out whether or not you make sexy sounds of your own?”

“Oh, yeah.” Charlie’s smile widened to a delighted grin, watching as Neville rose from his chair, skirting the coffee table to perch beside him on the sofa. “You can find out anything you want.”

“Good.” Neville leaned in, lips brushing lightly over Charlie’s. “We have three days. I suggest we don’t waste another minute.”

“I agree,” Charlie murmured huskily, and pressed his lips more firmly over Neville’s, tongue darting out to tease at the seam until Neville parted his mouth to let him inside. The kiss was deep, lush and languorous, tongues sliding and tangling in a dance that gradually increased in tempo as passion grew, mouths slanting over and over while they familiarised themselves with the others’ taste and texture.

Neville drew back, ending the kiss, his breathing uneven, unspoken questions behind his deep brown eyes. Charlie stroked his thumb over Neville’s trousers, alongside the unmistakably hard bulge beneath before moving to grasp the hem of his t-shirt. 

Mindful of Neville’s injured arm, Charlie pulled the shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside before removing his own, where it joined the other. Pressing Neville onto his back, Charlie shifted over him, propping himself on one elbow, bending his head and kissing the line of Neville’s jaw.

“You do have a tattoo.” Neville’s fingers traced over the Hungarian Horntail curled around Charlie’s bicep. A puff of smoke escaped its nostrils beneath his touch.

“I have a couple more you’ll probably get to see before the evening’s done,” Charlie replied, lips moving down Neville’s throat and chest to latch onto a nipple, teeth grazing the tip. 

Neville let out a low gasp, back arching. “God, yes...”

Swirling his tongue around the taut nub, Charlie closed his mouth over it and drew hard, cheeks hollowing. Neville moaned, one hand sliding into Charlie’s hair, the other reaching to grab and knead at Charlie’s arse.

“Like that, do you?” Charlie asked, releasing him with a soft popping sound. His fingers closed around the other nipple, tweaking lightly. He brushed a light kiss across the first, peering up at Neville. “I’d be more than happy to keep going.”

“Yessss...” Neville whispered, wriggling against the teasing caresses. “Always have...long as I can remember...”

“Well, I did want to hear you. Now I know how.” Lowering his head, he caught a nipple between his teeth, tugging gently while pulling and pinching at the other. Neville groaned his appreciation, fingers tightening in Charlie’s hair and digging into his arse. He bit down harder, making Neville writhe beneath him, gasping and crying out, hips lifting to press against Charlie’s groin, grinding shamelessly.

Charlie drew back, tongue lapping at the abused bud, soothing the sting, and reached between their bodies with his free hand. A few deft twists of his fingers had his and Neville’s trousers undone, fingers closing around his hot, rigid length. His nails grazed the underside, making it twitch in his grasp. Charlie kissed Neville again, hard and fierce, shifting his grip to enclose his cock alongside Neville’s, rubbing and stroking them together. The friction was delicious, electric, and Charlie’s moans and gasps soon mingled with Neville’s. Neville let go of Charlie’s hair in favour of twining his fingers with Charlie’s around their cocks, thrusting in concert into their joined hands.

“I’m close,” Charlie groaned. Neville merely nodded, his breath quickening, eyes slipping shut, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He shuddered moments later with a long, low moan, spilling over their hands. Charlie joined him soon after, gasping. 

He slumped onto Neville’s chest with a sated sigh, ignoring the combined seed smeared between them, stroking Neville’s hair back from his forehead with his other hand as they fought to catch their breaths.

“I’ve never been in a long-distance relationship before,” Neville said finally, sitting up and retrieving his wand, cleaning the spilled semen from their bodies. “I’m willing to give it a shot if you are.”

Charlie had, once before, when he’d first left England for Romania. It hadn’t lasted long. He wouldn’t hold his breath over this one lasting either, but if what he felt for Neville was real, miles wouldn’t matter.

“We’ll try,” he replied. “But first, I want to find out how much I can learn about you in three days. Starting now.”

Curling his arm around Neville’s shoulders, he began kissing him again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

_Fourteen Months Later_

Charlie finished unpacking, giving his new quarters at the Gwystyl Dragon Reservation in Wales a look of satisfaction. He would miss Romania and his friends there, but now that he’d finally been given a reason to return to Britain for good, he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity.

He’d have returned earlier, but the legal proceedings against Gustav Magnusson had taken precedence. Both he and Neville had testified at the man’s trial, leading to Magnusson’s conviction and a lengthy stay in Sweden’s version of Azkaban prison. Charlie shook his head, remembering. His former friend had been corrupted by greed, unable to pass up the gold available on the black market from dragonhide, teeth, claws and blood. The hatchlings, young and vulnerable, had been easier prey than the adults, and, for a time, easier to poach.

Charlie’s duties didn’t begin until the following Monday, giving him the weekend to finish settling into his new home. His mother had already told him in no uncertain terms that he was to visit the Burrow for Sunday dinner. She didn’t know it yet, but Charlie was bringing a guest.

Smiling, Charlie left his quarters and walked to the administrative building, Apparating from there to Hogsmeade, where he made his way to a small, neat house on the village outskirts and knocked. He heard movement from within and smiled, bouncing on his toes in anticipation.

The door opened. Neville blinked, breaking into a grin of delighted surprise upon recognising his visitor.

“I’m back,” he said simply.

Neville grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him.


End file.
